WHAT IT IS
something has chosen me for its disguise
timeless it immerses me in time
which then runs off
eroding my body and voice
into that final form
that is still only a suggestion
of what it is
this rough old stick I carried
with me many miles
poking the ground and tending my steps
is some old companion of the thing
that peers through me
some never failing servant
not just this mere stick that can be broken